


Dream Boy

by Evandar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_crossgenfest, Dream Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Underage, Horcruxes, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:11:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7632022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-preservation is what Tom was created for. So when he discovers the Horcrux in Harry’s scar, he decides to preserve that too. Of course, that doesn’t mean that he can’t enjoy himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to gracerene for running this brilliant fest for another year, and thank you to penumbria_fics for leaving such a chilling and intriguing prompt. I hope that you like the result! Thanks also go to R for her tireless work as beta and sounding board.

His intent is self-preservation. It has _always_ been his intent, from the earliest days in the orphanage to the day his true-self carved him out and sealed him in their treasured diary. As a Horcrux, self-preservation is an even more intrinsic part of his being. He was created for preservation, and so his every action and his every word has been for that purpose. He will drain the life and soul of the silly little girl whose body he wears to open the Chamber, and by doing so he will be reborn: young again, strong, and capable of creating his own Horcrux. _Preserved_.

His intent when he discovers that his new owner is the boy who defeated his true-self is self-preservation, and so he opens the pages of the diary to him and welcomes the boy inside the memories he inhabits. He intends to show the boy his framing of Hagrid – intends to win his trust and trick him – but as soon as the boy joins him in his sepia-toned universe, Tom knows that something is off.

The boy brings someone with him. A shard of someone cold and sharp and intimately familiar; a shard of Tom’s self. A second Horcrux, almost completely hidden by the bright blaze of the boy’s own soul. It is weak and frayed and stuffed full of the memories of Tom’s true-self, and for a split second he freezes in horror.

The boy, trapped in the memory, doesn’t notice.

Tom has existed as a Horcrux for fifty years. He has known for those years that his true-self was intending to make others. That there would be seven in total – the strongest magical number – and that those other fragments would be sealed in artefacts that proved his true-self’s power. He hadn’t thought that one of those vessels would be a person. It is an illogical decision, and he reaches out to that tiny fragment of soul and –

There is no real language to describe what Tom does. He picks the fragment apart to examine it; he assimilates its memories into himself, but he does not take the fragment itself. He cannot. His very purpose is self-preservation, and he cannot fulfil that purpose by destroying another of his true-self’s Horcruxes. Instead, he builds a sort of bridge – a connection between himself and that delicate little sliver of soul – so that he might keep an eye on it. 

By the time the memory finishes, Tom’s plans have changed utterly. The girl had devoted whole bottles of ink to extolling the boy’s virtues. Tom has heard, in nauseating detail, her prepubescent fantasies of the Boy Who Lived; the boy who defeated the Dark Lord. His plans had been based on trickery and deceit, and his goal had been to destroy the boy before _he_ could be destroyed. No more.

He pushes the boy back into his body, and shifts the ink absorbed by his vessel so that he can create words on the open page.

_The attacks stopped after Hagrid was expelled. Whether it was because he was truly the Heir of Slytherin or because the real culprit got scared and stopped of his own accord, I cannot say._

It’s not quite the truth, but it’s the start of a new manipulation that won’t end with the boy’s destruction. 

…

Harry Potter dreams of spiders. They creep through the trees of the Forbidden Forest and into his cupboard. _His_ cupboard. Tom, hiding in the shadows of the boy’s mind, feels outrage. 

Harry Potter is a _child_. He is a _magical_ child. The Muggles who have raised him are no better than Mrs Cole. White-hot anger blazes in his mind, but beneath it there is a stirring of something else. It’s only when he’s stalked out from behind a tree in the boy’s dream, raised his wand, and hexed the advancing spiders that he realises that the feeling is _kinship_.

Harry Potter is like him in a way. More noble, certainly, but they share the same trauma. They are both cunning and wilful and prone to anger. Tom approaches the boy’s dream self slowly; in his dream, Harry is six years old and sobbing with fear. Tom was never good with the other children in the orphanage, but now that he has inflicted his wrath on dream-spiders, his temper has cooled enough for him to focus on things other than pain. There is no real debate over what he should do – he _needs_ the boy, after all – and the similarities between them are a valuable resource. He crouches down and squeezes into the cupboard.

The boy hiccups and looks up at him with big green eyes still wet with tears. 

“The spiders can’t get you while I’m here,” Tom tells him, sliding an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “I’ll protect you. I promise.” 

He does. He lurks in Harry’s dreams, cursing imaginary threats and cradling the boy in his arms. He whispers gentle praise to him – “so brave, Harry, so beautiful and kind” – and surprises himself by telling the truth. Every night, he crosses the bridge he made into Harry’s dreams and cradles the boy in his arms.

He is…addictive. 

He is also glorious in his submissiveness. At every word of praise, he turns those large green eyes up to Tom in wonder. Any suspicion he may have had has been obliterated by Tom’s careful words and his careful manipulation of the soul fragment lodged within Harry’s scar. It’s small and weak, but with enough effort, Tom can use it to alter the boy’s temperament to something he can work with. 

In Harry’s name, he lays aside his plans for the Basilisk and the _stupid_ little girl he had been using. He severed his ties to her the moment he realised that Harry held one of the other Horcruxes and erased all her memories of him, and he has made sure that Harry will never give him away. He has tangled himself in Harry’s mind and his soul, and he has made Harry _want_ him there.

He has made Harry want _him_.

…

Harry dreams of a secluded spot by the lake. It’s a sheltered shore by the edge of the Forbidden Forest surrounded by boulders and willows. When Tom joins him, he is staring out over the water with his bare feet in the shallows. He’s dressed in the rags that his relatives subject him to, and he is calm. Peaceful. His skin glows in the light from the setting sun, and when Tom joins him at the water’s edge, he looks up and smiles.

“I was waiting for you,” he says.

Tom settles himself by Harry’s side. It’s the work of moments to remove his own shoes and slip his feet into the water. It’s shockingly cold – just as the lake is in reality – and crystal clear, and he flexes his toes just to watch the ripples spread outwards. Harry’s hand touches his, and Tom looks down in time to see Harry’s fingers slide between his own. He glances up again. The boy is smiling shyly, and his eyes reflect the sunlight sparkling off the water, and he is _beautiful_. He is Tom’s. 

He leans down as Harry tilts his head up. It’s not their first kiss, but it is the first that Harry has initiated. A victory. With every touch and gentle caress, Tom ensures his safety further. Harry needs him and wants him and so Tom is safe. His true-self is safe, with two Horcruxes united and well-guarded. 

He nips at Harry’s lower lip. The boy gasps softly and flicks out his tongue to soothe the hurt, licking across Tom’s lips unintentionally. At least, he assumes that it’s unintentional from the way that Harry flushes and pulls back. Tom laughs at him – not cruelly, never cruelly with his Harry – and darts in to steal another kiss.

He pushes Harry down onto the soft sand beneath them. He leans over him, kissing slowly and gently as he slides his hands up under that ridiculous T-Shirt. Harry gasps and mewls beneath him as Tom’s fingers rub over his nipples, and Tom slips his tongue into the boy’s mouth. Harry squirms beneath him, but he keeps his touches gentle. He makes it clear that Harry can pull away at any time – forcing him would be counterproductive – and Harry clings to him instead. Tom kisses his lips until they’re swollen, and he kisses a path down his neck. He pulls away so that he can lift Harry’s T-Shirt over his head, and on a whim, he uses it to tie the boy’s wrists together over his head. Harry looks up at him, flushed and wide-eyed, and he smiles sweetly in his naiveté. 

He is lucky that Tom’s goal is to preserve himself and his true-self, or else he would find his soul devoured.

In Harry’s dream, his body is more filled out. Tom knows from his perusal of Harry’s own memories that ribs should be visible and hip bones protruding, but Harry dreams of being attractive for him and so none of the malnourishment his relatives have caused is present. But while he’s more filled out, he’s still small and slender and Tom’s hands look obscenely large against him. Tom kisses him again. He kisses down and down until he reaches the waistband of Harry’s tattered jeans. He glances up to make sure that Harry is watching as he licks his lips deliberately and undoes the button. Harry whimpers, but his hips thrust up and he does not pull away.

He is naked beneath his jeans. Tom isn’t surprised – he knows from experience that there is nothing attractive about greying, hand-me-down underwear. He’s hard. His cock is still fairly small with youth, but it rises towards Tom’s mouth from a nest of soft black curls. He curls his fingers around it and breathes lightly on the head. Harry jerks. His hands begin to lower, but Tom reaches up to stop him. He holds Harry’s hands above his head with one hand as he lowers his head and licks the head of Harry’s cock.

Harry’s cry is desperate. His hips thrust up instinctively, and Tom has to release his cock in order to hold him still. He glances up – Harry is still staring at him; his mouth has fallen open and the flush of his cheeks has spread down his neck. He is _breath-taking_ and the reverence with which Tom lowers his head and sucks him into his mouth isn’t purely for manipulation. His boy tastes sweet and musky and the still-small size of him means that there’s very little effort in swallowing him to the hilt.

He’s not sure how long it takes. All he’s aware of is the way Harry feels in his mouth; the sounds that the boy makes as he grows closer and closer to climax. Tom can feel him straining against his hold but he doesn’t release him. He sucks and licks and strokes his fingers lightly over Harry’s lower belly.

He vanishes when he climaxes, leaving Tom alone in sepia pages with the faint taste of semen in his mouth.

Words appear before him in Harry’s untidy scrawl. _I love you, Tom_. He laughs and laughs and laughs himself sick.

…

Time passes. Harry ages, but Tom does not. Harry writes and dreams and Tom, eternally patient, is gentle and devoted. Harry _loves_ him, and it is so easy to play the part that he has fallen into. The tender lover, trapped in an old book. He gains strength from Harry’s secrets. He takes the boy and shapes him in his own image and one day, the words he has been waiting for arrive.

_I’m leaving Tom, I can’t do this anymore. Sirius is_

Tears splatter the page and Tom drinks them in like ink.

 _Harry?_ he writes back.

_He’s dead. Sirius is dead. I_

More tears. Inkblots. Harry is distraught, and Tom reaches out through his link to Harry’s Horcrux and he _marvels_ in it. Harry has always been so emotional in a way that Tom is incapable of, and it’s _fascinating_.

 _Harry? Please tell me,_ he writes. _Please, Harry. I love you._

_They want me to kill Voldemort. There’s a prophecy or something, I don’t know. I tortured Bellatrix for what she did. I cast the Cruciatus and it worked and she screamed and it felts so good but Tom. Tom. I’m not a murderer, Tom. I can’t._

_It’s alright, Harry,_ Tom replies. He knows that his writing isn’t perfect – he’s too delighted to focus – but Harry is too upset to notice. _They can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do._ He pauses. _Is that why you’re leaving?_

He can feel the answer in Harry’s mind before his quill touches the page.

_Yes. I have to._

He will comfort Harry in his dreams later. He will be sympathetic and loving and he’ll fuck the boy until he wakes up aching from it, but for now, when all Harry can see of him is ink and paper, Tom laughs in shameless delight. He has _won_.

**Author's Note:**

> Please show your appreciation for the author here, or on [LIVEJOURNAL](http://hp-crossgenfest.livejournal.com/37481.html)! ♥


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